Tom Cunliffe
Gales in mid-latitudes generally seem to arrive in two packages. The first is the honest frontal depression cruising past our boats on the side nearest the pole. The wind pipes up as the warm front approaches and pressure falls. It blows hard and we get soaked as the front passes and the barometer levels out. Up here in the northern hemisphere the breeze now veers and hammers along solidly as the so-called ‘warm sector’ trundles through. A few hours later, or maybe longer depending on the nature of the system, the cold front arrives. A lively one can roar like a lion with heavy squalls, ditto rain or hail, a veering wind and the glass going up like the lift in Harrods on a Saturday afternoon, but in its own quaint way it’s glad tidings. Behind it, there’s blue skies and things quieten down, for a while
